


Cracks

by BooksOverPeople



Series: Cracks Universe [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Anal Sex, Angels, Case Fic, Demonlock, Demons, First Time, Love Confessions, M/M, Rough Sex, Wall Sex, kind of, or should i say front door sex?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 04:23:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7603252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BooksOverPeople/pseuds/BooksOverPeople
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes hasn't had a Fury since he was a volatile 19-year-old.<br/>But when John Watson walks into his life, he suddenly has a fucking soft spot. Honestly, this fucking human is going to be the death of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cracks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [purrlockholmes (stilesstilerstyle)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilesstilerstyle/gifts).



> This fic has been in the making for over a year. I saw Jenny's artwork last year and wrote the idea down but I just got around to actually writing it. So Jen, this is for you. I'm going to include the pictures that inspired me down below. Do check her out on tumblr http://purrlockholmes.tumblr.com/  
> (I included a link down below that'll take you straight to her blog c:)  
> I love you, Jenny <3  
> Enjoy!
> 
> I did my own editing and Brit-picking so if you spot any mistakes, do let me know in the comments!

 

Sherlock looked up only when he felt the energy around him shift. On the dirty warehouse floor lay an emaciated angel. Her thin wrists were encircled with criss-crossed burn marks that ventured up to her elbows like sinister serpents. Her wide amber eyes were still open, blankly staring at the scorch mark on the ceiling. Reddish-brown wings fanned out under her, the lightest feathers the same colour as her eyes. The sleek feathers had lost the usual sheen angel feathers had when she had died but were still something to behold. To Sherlock, however, the thing that struck him the most was that she was dead and he still didn’t know how she had died or why.

In the room was a healthy mix of demons, angels and humans and while Sherlock knew it technically shouldn’t be possible to tell who had walked into a room based on the energy they brought in, he’d always been able to tell when it was John.

The energy an individual carried into a space was based entirely on their subspecies(or their lack of one) and the kind of life they led. The energy either felt positive or negative. John’s energy always had a different tinge to it. Mostly positive, with a tinge of negativity – no, with a tinge of _danger_. Sherlock had never come across a human, angel or demon who’d had a specific, identifiable flavour before meeting John.

The human in question crossed the room to stand beside Sherlock, fair hair that had grown the slightest bit shaggy getting in his eyes as he looked down at the sad sight at their feet.

 

“Bollocks,” muttered John. “An angel? Sarah almost cried when I told her I had to run out because an angel had been murdered.”

 

“Well spotted, John. An angel,” scoffed Sherlock, ignoring the comment about Sarah. “What can you tell me about the burns on her arms?”

 

John knelt to peer at the blistering wounds on the female’s forearms, dark blue gaze flickering over them.

 

“Looks like someone went to great lengths to make them look like burns from platinum wires but these don’t really look like an angel’s skin should look if it had come into contact with platinum. The skin tends to split apart with platinum burns. The edges of these burns are too uniform,” he said finally, standing up again to look at Sherlock.

 

“Impressive,” smirked Sherlock. “Yes, you’re perfectly correct. These burns were meant to look like the angel had been burned with wires of the one metal that angels cannot touch but the burning looks more like a contact burn from flexible tubing. Perhaps plastic tubing that he bound her with. He must have been running boiling water through them for at least an hour. These burns did not form within a short period of time – the bonds were in place for a while.”

 

Sharp eyes flicked around the room, trying to recreate the situation in his head.

He felt John take a step back to give him breathing space. Someone struck up a conversation with him but Sherlock filtered it out as white noise as he ran over what he knew.

No defensive wounds. Either she knew her assailant or she’d been drugged.

Burns made to look like platinum burns but in fact something that was meant to be more than just a flash of pain.

He was torturing her. But why? To what end?

 

He spun around to address Lestrade and his eyes fell on the demon whose finger was trailing down John’s leather-covered arm. His eyes were hooded, the customary red glint of demon eyes amplified by his excitement over whatever he was pitching to John.

John’s body language was shifted away from the auburn-haired demon, his disinterest evident in his stance. The demon’s persistence was clear as well. He had invaded John’s personal space, his smile anything but friendly – he looked like he wanted to devour John. Sherlock couldn’t fault him for that. He often wanted to devour John but that was different. Sherlock was Sherlock. Sherlock could have John.

They weren’t together in any capacity but everyone at the Yard knew not to proposition Sherlock Holmes’ human. Demons were naturally possessive of what they considered theirs – none of them fancied pissing off a higher demon who also happened to be Sherlock Holmes.

 

He’d been frozen in his spot for a few minutes, trying to reign in his instincts when the other demon leaned in to lick the shell of John’s ear.

Before John had a chance to wind up his arm to deliver a good old punch to the prick’s jaw, Sherlock had the wheezing scoundrel flat against the wall.

Slitted, red eyes blazed at the demon he held in his grip. He felt his forked tongue take shape as the wrath slithered through his body.

 

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” he snarled menacingly, dimly aware of the silence that had settled over the room. “Because…it looked like you were touching – even licking – my property. You do know what happens to demons who misbehave, hmm?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes flickered as he tilted his head closer to his victim’s, “You know what services I offer to the Yard. Do you honestly believe you can lay a pitiful finger on what’s mine and walk away whole?”

 

His voice was now but a growled rumble in his chest.

 

“I can kill you in the most excruciating, imaginative way possible and they’d never find your body or be able to incriminate me.”

The elegant fingers around a trembling neck tightened warningly as a choked gasp of fear escaped the wretched demon’s throat.

 

Sherlock grinned, a savage smile that showed all 32 pointed teeth.

 

“Sherlock, let him go,” a voice said.

 

He snarled, whipping around to stare down whoever had dared issue an order to him, dropping the woeful demon at his Louis Vuittoned feet. Calm eyes the colour of honey garnished with bits of midnight sky stared back at him, confident.

 

“He didn’t know I was yours, Sherlock, relax, forgive him,” John murmured, stepping closer.

 

“He touched you. He placed his filthy mark on you,” was the hissing response John received from a feral Sherlock. “My marks are all over you. You wear the scarf I gave you. He didn’t observe, John. He has to pay.”

 

“He’s an idiot, like everyone else. Come here, come see that I’m still yours, that I’m always yours, come on, love.”

 

John’s hands were held up, open palms placating Sherlock as he continued to come closer. Snarling, Sherlock covered the distance left between them, sweeping blackish blue wings spreading from the opening in the back of his coat to encircle John in his arms and shield them both with his wings.

He may have stood there for minutes or hours, with his cheek resting on top of John’s head, absorbing his familiar energy and the scent of his shampoo, lethal fingernails tangled in a fleece jumper. His eyes faded back to silvery-blue, his teeth back to blunt-tipped normal teeth, his tongue reverting to its regular shape.

 

“I’m sorry, John,” he whispered as he came back to his senses. He was mortified. He hadn’t had a Fury since he had been a teenager with major anger issues. He was in control of his feelings. He was always in control.

Until the independent variable that is John Watson waltzed into his life and completely cracked his barrier.

 

“It’s alright, let’s go home, okay? Let’s go home,” replied John, his hands cupping Sherlock’s cheeks.

 

Wings retracted, Sherlock nodded at Lestrade. Lestrade grimly nodded back, knowing exactly what Sherlock had just gone through. After all, he had Anderson on his team and that particular demon had more Furies in a month than Sherlock had in a year as a volatile teenager. Had Lestrade not been an angel, things would have quickly gotten ugly for Anderson.

As they walked out the door, John aimed a parting shot at the demon who had gotten up and regained some decorum.

 

“Keep your grubby hands to yourself next time, Hebbeck,” he said, gruffly.

 

“Will do, Doctor. Apologies, Sherlock,” replied Hebbeck, mournfully.

 

Sherlock gave a short nod and walked out, closely tailed by John.

  

 

The cab ride was anything but silent. There was a constant roaring in Sherlock’s ears, the rush of blood deafening.

 

He was going to lose John.

 

He was going to leave and Sherlock would be alone. Again.

 

His animalistic side was howling at the thought.

 

The first _“Brilliant!”_ that had left John’s lips had had the animal purring and eyeing him hungrily.

 

What was it about this seemingly random man that was so intriguing?

 

But he was a doctor. He was a soldier.

He had solid, compact hands that could heal and give life, or destroy and obliterate righteously.

He was a paradox; a mystery.

And oh, does Sherlock love those.

 

As the length of their companionship increased, the worry set in for Sherlock. There were a couple of issues. His animal side screamed “ **MATE. BOND.** ” every time John worried at the hem of his jumpers or scratched at the scruff of his neck.

 

And John was human.

Demons and humans _could_ mate (in theory) but in practice, the demon often lost control and injured the human – or in the worst cases, killed them.

 

The other issue was that John didn’t seem interested in pursuing a relationship with him. Plain and simple. That wouldn’t do at all. A forced mating was worse than no mating at all.

 

But John _was_ attracted to him. Sherlock was 98% sure he would not refuse Sherlock, _if_ he were to proposition him.

 

But sex wasn’t the ultimate goal for the consulting detective. He wanted EVERYTHING from John.

His smiles, his laughter, his hands on Sherlock’s skin, Sherlock’s hands on John’s skin, his lips, his eyes, his…his blood on Sherlock’s hands. On his tongue.

 

God, he thought he was losing his goddamn mind.

 

And Sherlock had fucked up today. In front of John. And the Yard.

 

Fuck.

 

Sherlock let out a low rumbling growl, making John’s worried gaze increase in its intensity.

_Stupid, stupid, **stupid.**_

 

He’d wanted to keep his feelings a secret until he was confident that John reciprocated.

 

He hadn’t wanted to hear the words “I’m always yours” from John’s lips for the first time because the good doctor had been forced to bring him back from a Fury.

Sherlock was sure he’d blown his one chance.

He closed his eyes and tried to reign himself back in.

 

He couldn’t have another Fury. That wasn’t an option. Maybe, just **maybe** , he could convince John to stay after this one but he would surely leave if Sherlock had another one. But with John being John, people would always seek him out and Sherlock would eventually be triggered to protect his claim again.

The sudden touch of John’s hand on his shoulder jolted him out of his thoughts.

 

“Sherlock, you’ve been growling like an abused motorcycle for 10 minutes now. You alright?” he asked.

 

“Fine,” answered Sherlock, gruffly. He coughed, clearing his throat. “I’m fine, John.”

 

“Don’t worry. It’s all fine. We’ll talk at home,” John smiled reassuringly.

 

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously.

He was still calling Baker Street _home_. Did that mean he was staying?

 

The animal was placated.

 _Mate,_ it purred.

 _Shut up,_ growled Sherlock back, clenching his hand on his thigh.

 

 

 Back at Baker Street, John had just shut the door when he began asking questions.

 

“Was that the first Fury you’ve had since I moved in?” he asked, blue eyes alight with concern.

 

Bushy brows lifted at John before their owner spoke;

“Have you witnessed any other Fury?”

 

John scoffed, “No, but I don’t spend _all_ my time with you. You could have had one in my absence.”

 

Sherlock was silent for a moment, before tilting his head at John-

 

“Why do you think I had a Fury today?”

 

He shrugged, “You got mad?”

 

Sherlock huffed irritably, “Obvious, John, but why? What was it that breezed through my iron control over my emotions and caused a Fury? Something I haven’t experienced since I was 19?”

 

“He touched me.”

 

“No, he **licked** you.”

 

“I was going to sock him.”

 

“Doesn’t matter. He put his scent on you. I had to retaliate.”

 

“Because I’m yours.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“But we aren’t together.”

 

Sherlock’s eye twitched.

 

“How’s the dating life going?”

 

“What? Sherlock, what does that have to do with this?”

 

“Answer the question, John.”

 

John sighed, “It isn’t.”

 

“Of course, it isn’t,” snarled Sherlock, eyes alight with a barely contained frustration. “My scent is all over you. You are _bathed_ in it. You’re covered with my brand of ownership. No angel or human was able to bear it though they knew you were technically unattached. Whether you wanted me or not, **I** wanted **you** and my claim was laid ages ago.”

 

“But, why me? Why would you want me?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes flickered crimson – a fire of the most dangerous sort.

 

“I know you tend to skip observing what you see, John, but how could you be so blind?”

 

Sherlock stalked towards the other man, spine ramrod straight, his fingers clenched by his sides. John swallowed against the fear the higher demon was bringing up in him. But the brave soldier kept his eyes locked on the demon’s, wanting – no, needing – to understand.

 

“Soldier, you have my heart. You infiltrated every defence, knocked down every wall. You came into my life, unassuming but solid and present. Looked a higher demon in the eye and sassed him for endangering his life on the first day you met him, called him brilliant, extraordinary, watched out for him, treated him well, made him **_better_**. You have occupied my mind, John.”

 

He took a breath, resting his forehead against John’s.

 

“You are the cracks in my sanity,” he breathed.

 

John closed his eyes, allowing himself to relish in the moment of intimacy with Sherlock.

Sherlock who had wanted him all this time.

 

“You closed every gaping wound I ever had, Sherlock. You are my whole world. You gave me my life back. Your feelings are returned. Of course, they’re returned,” he whispered, voice low lest he shatter the intensity of the moment.

Beautiful, slender fingers tipped his chin up, gentle.

But the lips that occupied his were anything but. Possessive and feral, Sherlock’s mouth took his, tongue licking in like it knew it was welcome.

 

John groaned, eyes shut, mind focusing all his concentration on every miniscule sensation from the talented lips on his own.

Sherlock was struggling to hold back, tangling his hands in John’s jumper to prevent them from touching skin and leaving behind his marks on the golden skin like he wanted to.

 

Sure, John was kissing him back but that did not mean he wanted the demon’s semi-permanent claiming mark on him.

 

“Shut up,” mumbled a hoarse-sounding John against his mouth.

 

“Can’t help the growling,” he replied, nipping at the human’s lips.

 

“Keep the growling, it’s bloody hot. I was talking about that big brain of yours. You’re overthinking. Now shut that mind up and claim me like you want to.”

 

Sherlock groaned, a hand coming up to grasp John’s face.

 

“You don’t know what that entails. For me to claim you – that’s a mark that will almost surely stay even if we don’t mate. And for me to mate you? I have to be at the peak of my power. I could kill you,” Sherlock whispered brokenly.

 

“We don’t have to mate today – though I do want to eventually, any risks be damned. But mark me up, brand me, leave your fingerprints all over my skin. I’m yours to claim, fucking take me,” responded John, flint blue eyes boring into icy blue ones, Sherlock’s collar fisted in his hands.

 

Without another word, Sherlock shoved John against the front door, locking it as he went in to crowd against the other man, lips roaming his jaw, neck, collarbone.

John tilted his face upwards, neck completely exposed, his hands clutching onto Sherlock’s shoulders.

Sherlock allowed his darker instincts to claw their way to the surface as he began disrobing both John and himself, claws lengthening to allow him to tear away any resisting clothing.

John’s reverberating moans mingled with Sherlock’s own groans as their hips began a grinding rhythm of their own volition.

 

Sherlock clamped a hand onto John’s mouth, grinning down at his almost naked form as he leaned in to whisper, “You’re mine to claim. Every noise out of your throat is mine. Your lips are mine. Your cock is mine. And when you come while I’m inside you, your pleasure will be mine, too.”

 

John shuddered, heavily moaning from behind Sherlock’s hand.

 

He scrambled at it and Sherlock acquiesced to remove it, only to have John draw him into a filthy kiss.

 

Their lips met and pulled and nipped. Tongues tangling and swiping in and out around each other in a synchronised dance. John caught Sherlock’s lower lip between his teeth drawing it in into his mouth.

 

Sherlock moaned, loud and guttural, slamming his hand into the doorframe in his frustration.

 

He scrambled to remove their remaining clothing before stepping out of reach of John’s hands. Ignoring John’s whine of protest, he locked John in his gaze.

 

“ _Stay._ Arms up, palms facing inward and, **_stay_** ,” he ordered, baritone rumble making the words even more unbearably erotic.

 

John immediately complied, swallowing as he watched Sherlock backing away, the other man’s eyes hungry, before he turned and strode into his bedroom as naked as the day he was born.

 

Sherlock returned in record time, eyes blown wide with lust. What remained of his irises was glowing a luminous blue, power practically radiating from them.

He stepped closer to John pressing his lithe body completely against John’s more compact body, claws dragging down the rigid abdomen, leaving red lines to blossom in their wake.

 

The flick of the cap of the lube bottle was almost too loud in the thick silence between them.

 

“Lift,” Sherlock commanded, easily hefting John’s weight when he obeyed, wrapping firm legs around the demon’s slim waist.

 

“I’m going to fuck you now. I’m not going to be gentle. I’m not going to go slow. And you, are going to take it. Are we clear?”

 

Sherlock’s voice was deep and steely but his words were at odds with the gentle movements of his thumbs against John’s inner thighs, the affection belying the gestures obvious even to John.

 

“Crystal,” responded John, his smile toothy.

 

The following kiss was rough, more teeth than anything, the movement bringing Sherlock’s stomach close to John’s long-neglected cock.

He groaned, the friction delicious.

 

“Please, Sherlock, I need it,” he moaned.

 

Before the words even fully left his lips, a slick finger was pressing relentlessly into him.

 

John keened, long and low at that first breach.

 

Sherlock was sticking to short and quick thrusts with his finger, soon adding another to John’s hole.

 

He scissored them, stretching John open for him.

 

Lips to his lover’s ear, Sherlock snarled, “Does that feel good? I want to be inside you in every way. I want to take over your heart and mind and soul. I want to be the blood in your veins. I want to _consume_ you.”

 

“I want to **let** you,” panted John, squirming.

 

Sherlock chuckled darkly.

“Want more? Don’t answer that, you’re getting more regardless of what you want.”

 

John’s only response was to groan louder as a third finger was roughly pushed into him.

A few perfunctory thrusts were all he got before Sherlock impatiently removed his fingers in favour of slicking up his cock.

 

He steadied it with one hand, resting John’s weight on his hip, and pushed in.

A sharp gasp was wrenched from John as the head slipped past the initial resistance his body put up. He could feel every inch of Sherlock’s no doubt beautiful cock stretching him and it was a gorgeous pressure.

 

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck, Sherlock,” he panted out, a hand reaching for his own cock to give it a few tugs.

 

His hand was quickly snatched up along with his other hand as Sherlock pushed him farther into the door.

 

“Keep those hands up,” snapped Sherlock, his hips snapping up into John.

 

His gasp was cut short as the grip on his wrists tightened and Sherlock picked up his pace, fucking into him hard and harsh.

 

“ _Yes, yes, yes, please, please, Christ, Sherlock, touch me,_ **_touch me_** _,_ ” pleaded John, broken moans punched out of him with every ragged breath.

 

“Take it, **take it** , you’re mine, John, all mine,” gasped Sherlock, his voice jagged.

 

“Yours, oh god, yours, _fuck me_ _–_ ”

 

John cut himself off with a stertorous scream as Sherlock unerringly hit the bundle of nerves inside him.

 

“Like that?” grinned Sherlock, feral and beautiful, letting John’s hands go.

 

John clutched at his hair, wrenching his head back. Sherlock allowed it, rather than forcing the human’s hands back up, letting him have an anchor this time.

 

“ _Yes, yes, yes, **just like that** , please, Sherlock, I need it, give it to me, God, please_,” he rasped, hand clenched hard in Sherlock’s hair.

 

Sherlock let out a gnarly roar and grasped John’s cock with one hand, allowing his rhythmic motion to push it through his grip as he continued thrusting.

 

A handful of thrusts and John was clenching around Sherlock as he came hard, mouth open on an aborted scream.

As his cock stopped pulsating, Sherlock dropped to his knees, still inside John. He clamped his right hand on John’s left shoulder as he roughly continued thrusting in short, hard jerks. As he started coming, he tightened his grip.

 

“ ** _John_** ,” he rasped as blue light seeped from under his grip.

 

John screamed, the pain in his shoulder shocking it out of him while Sherlock kept up a constant rumble.

 

When Sherlock finally let go and slowly pulled out of him, he shakily opened his eyes as Sherlock peppered his face and chest with kisses.

 

“Sherlock, _shit_ , was that your brand?” he asked, hands reaching for his lover.

 

The demon lifted his head, looking sheepish, “Yes, John. I didn’t mean for it hurt you that much, but I lost control a bit there.”

 

John chuckled, lifting his head to look at the sigil over his scarred shoulder.

 

“It’s…blue?” John asked, raising an eyebrow at his lover.

 

“Metallic teal, actually. It’s the colour of my power and energy,” explained Sherlock, eyes firmly on his mark.

 

The mark glinted with its metallic sheen. The feather at the end of the arrow that pierced through the single wing on John’s shoulder was beautifully detailed with 2 little charms dangling off the end – a human skull and a grenade adorned with a small heart.

 

The lines of the wing were solid and each feather – there were 6 – was a defined curve that began at the joint and ended in a pointed tip. They were not delicate, but rather sturdy and blocky, much like a Greek symbol. The arrow went straight through the middle, the feather near the end of the tips of the wings and the sharp point through the joint.

 

“That’s us,” murmured Sherlock. “My wing but not fine-boned and feathery. Powerful like you, solid. The arrow that goes through probably represents the bullet that went through you to bring us together. And the charms tied to the end of the feather – the skull for me, the grenade and heart for you. Soldier and healer.”

 

Tears welled up in both their eyes as they stared at themselves on John’s shoulder.

 

“Us. Together,” whispered John.

 

He lifted his eyes to Sherlock’s, “I **_belong_** to you.”

 

Sherlock smiled softly at John, “And _I_ , to _you_.”

 

 

 

 

[purrlockholmes (Jenny)](purrlockholmes.tumblr.com)

[cumberbatata (me)](cumberbatata.tumblr.com)

 

**Author's Note:**

> There you have it! Drop me a comment to let me know if you wanna see more in this 'verse and a kudos so I know you liked it! (I mean, if you want to, you don't have to, but like it would make my day. No pressure though.)
> 
> The wing image included was the initial sketch I had in mind for the wing except the final image I see has more elegant, curved tips and of course, the arrow going through it. The other picture is the colour I imagine the sigil to be. Just less glittery xD
> 
> Anyway, after writing almost 4000, I seem to have run out of things to say.  
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing this.
> 
> There will probably be more stories in this 'verse...  
> Actually, there definitely will be.
> 
> Okay, okay, I'm leaving, bye!
> 
> ~Zal  
> cumberbatata.tumblr.com


End file.
